Supplicate
by TheNewBrawler
Summary: During an investigation on Jin Kazama, Lei Wulong finds himself haunted.
1. 1

Disclaimer – Don't own Tekken.

_This was originally meant to be a long one-shot, but I've decided to put it into chapters. It was originally meant to be a Halloween fic but it's changed a little from what I originally planned. And I had to get some of my old OTP Lei/Jun in somehow. Hopefully it has some reading value._

_._

Supplicate

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When the gun had gone off, Lei Wulong was neither here nor there in his head. His comrade had been shot, several times, in the chest and head and the bloody, punctured bag of his body had been crumbled at his feet. Of course, when the loaded ammunition had been discharged and the bullets had hurtled through his arm and shoulder, did pain strike in dull, tearing tremors and by the time he'd called for backup he'd long since lost consciousness.

The hospital is a dark place. An ancient military facility, he was told. It reminds him of an old base he was once stationed at in his home country. Just as dismal as this brick, it used to hold the broken bodies of the previous wars. When China opened its eyes and marched south, destroying their culture as they went with new voices and open minds. Now their history lies in rubble around them and there isn't a soul to be found who remembers the old ways. At least in Hong Kong there is enough noise and colour to distract from the mottled ground that is their countryside or the fact their crops are submerged in inky smoke courtesy of the Mishima Zaibatsu.

People have begun to swarm around the Government buildings, plying for a merciful surrender. But the national pride is too great. The Mishima can drop their bombs or mangle the ground or plunge people's lives into darkness. They shall stand tall.

Lei is away from China, away from Hong Kong, away from his station and the people who need him. Japan, now rebuilt from the brief, panicked uprising last year, is lush and green and terrifying. Every word spoken to him has been rehearsed. The people operate in tiny voiced choruses, never speaking out of line or too loud. The Mishima flag sways softly outside the hospital window. As the wind had blown it closer, he'd pulled down the window and tried to set it alight with his fallen friend's lighter. But it had fluttered away, peeling back from the weak stutter of the flame, and in the end he gave up.

His room is bare. Grey walls, grey everything. Even the outside is bizarrely uncluttered. Snow has fallen prematurely this year and smothered the summer's last lingering gasp of warmth.

Midnight. Biting cold. Horrible. Lei hates the cold. He used to train in it in his youth, in the vague hope of conquering it somehow. But it remained as heartless and close as any serial killer, so now he just ignores it and hopes spring comes soon.

He sits on his grey bed in his grey room and watches the shadows of snowflakes drift down the bandage on his arm. The bed clothes are wrapped around his knees in a desperate bid for heat.

A woman stands in the corner. Short black hair, layered to her shoulders. A criss cross of white headbands in her hair. A snowy jumpsuit.

He fumbles for his gun beneath the pillow. As soon as he retrieves it, he glances back, expecting full well that the mother of the world's monster will be gone. A mean spirited trick of the light. But there she stands, still. She has a sort of discreet, disturbing luminance etched around her face, her person, tumbling off her in smoky, soft waves of light.

Her gaze lowers to the gun.

"I don't know how you found your way here..." Always the apt, prepared police officer. It's a guise that at the moment he welcomes. "But you're walking on thin ice. You're more than just on the wanted list."

As she breathes, the bone white of her shoulders rise and fall. His finger compresses on the trigger. She takes a step further, out of the shade, into the dim stretch of orange light provided by the creaking bulb overhead. He'd hadn't noted it at first, since the pattern of her suit was hidden within the clutches of darkness, but a patterned swarm of black ravens unravel on her left trouser and finish in a inky swirl at her breast.

His mouth is dry at the sight of her. His own hair is loose, falling in a heavy, unkempt bundle down his back. Despite the freeze of the room, his chest is bare beneath the blankets, to spare the catch of material on his bandages. The pain has doused his skin in a sickly sweat.

He tries to remember what the old Jun would have said. She might have laughed and told him to put the gun down. A first class cop, but useless with the ladies. She might even have been serious and would have declared, in her firm voice (the one he always loved to hear, and would say it was a great voice for a police woman) that there was no reason to invoke violence. But this Jun, this woman, stands still and refuses, it seems, to tear her eyes from his.

"What do you want?" He keeps the gun high, and steady. "Make it quick."

She bows her head, observing the thin lines caught in the arch of her fingers. She wets her lips, her brow creasing slightly, before she raises her gaze, facing him fully. Her throat shifts as she swallows, but there is nothing nervous about the action. Carefully, she begins to move. Each gentle tread of her feet on the tiles explodes like gunshots in Lei's brain. The resolve he so prides himself on begins to waver, along with the weapon now shaking and unsteady in his hand.

"Speak," He thrusts the pistol forward, as if in warning. Undeterred, she stops short of its barrel. He shakes his head, as if trying to wade off a bad dream. "Why are you here?"

She lies on finger on the tip of the gun. Her thumb curls round and touches the end of his forefinger, rooted on the trigger.

"Lei..." Her words. Her voice. He never thought he would hear it again, no, ever _see_ her again. Even if his associates had, in one surreal scenario, given him her file and a warning. "I need you to help me."

Her other hand is lain over his. It's a cool, smooth pressure on his skin. A shiver racks down his spine. It isn't _right_. Something seems to awaken, to shift, in the black within her irises. Sensing this, she pulls away and folds her hands in her lap.

"How did you get here?" He presses on. The gun is finally put to rest, between them. It's a temporary truce. His hushes his voice, but doesn't soften it. "You must realise that there are people looking for you, Jun."

"I wouldn't have come to any other person," Jun replies simply, but she is too strangely calm, too confident. "But I'm not what I was."

"What does that mean? I'm not that good of a detective."

The snow caresses the windows in tumbling lines of blurring white.

His tongue glides along the inside of his cheek. As he goes to look at her, once again, it's almost as if she is closer than she was a moment before. Jun touches the groves of her wrists, and then the pale flesh of her lips, toying with the edge of her mouth and then the blunt, white smoothness of her teeth, as if rediscovering herself. He can't believe that she's here, of all places, chosen him, sorely, of all people.

"Jun..." Lei fastens his hand on hers. She stills, suddenly alert, fretful, like a caged animal. "The world thinks you're dead."

The tameness evaporates as soon as it had appeared, and in its place, is that new, confusing composure.

"I _was_ dead." She responds carefully. Her eyes cloud, as if deep in thought. "I remember it. I think I do. I must have done."

"Died, you mean?" There is a differing scent about her. It's strange, earthy, like the musty, sickly sweet rot of decay. He swallows. "But you're here."

"I'm here and I'm not," she whispers, and there is a sudden strike of fear, cruelly human, lashing across her face. She drops his hand as if it is a poisonous snake. He reaches for her then, suddenly awash with deja vu, but she presses back from his touch and slips, once more, into the shadows.

"I'm sorry," she says quickly. She has her back to him. The darkness from which she had first emerged seems to spread, curling across the ceiling and walls like murky tendrils of split treacle. "Forget this. Forget me."

He half topples from the bed in an attempt to follow her, but the corner is just another bare, grey, empty wall and the chill rejoices in diving into his skin and rising pimples on his arms.

"Jun...?"

A resounding echo is his only answer.


	2. 2

_Disclaimer – I don't own Tekken._

_A couple of projects are finally reaching completion. Seeing how happy this makes me, I decided to submit the second chapter to this ficlet. _

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When finally released from the hospital, Lei is gladdened to put the death, the desolate husk of the old military base lost in the forest, the grey walls and the shallow stab of his healing injury behind him. Tokyo welcomes him in all its glittering, electrified glory and he stalks the streets, assigned to retrieve information about the solitary gargoyle huddled in the tower overhead.

After a stale fortnight chasing circles, he receives a phone call from a so called witness who refuses to give his name. But Lei reckons he recognizes the the heavy and domineering force seated behind a thick Korean accent. He attempts to probe further, but the conversation is cut short with a wish to meet in some backstreet bar somewhere. If Lei wishes to gain information, he must come unaccompanied.

The only company he brings with him is his gun, concealed in the inner pocket of his jacket.

The old bar he is forced to attend is stationed in a grubby backstreet. The place is lit with flickers of failing strobe, walls dank and peeling, a piss poor hovel of a building nestled amongst the wreckage of the recent bombings. Lei slides in via the back door, fingering the shape of his badge through the hem of his jacket. There are two long lines of miserable, cramped little booths, the red and white of the leather faded beyond repair. Lei's lip curls as he sits down in the designated area and waits for the designated informer.

He orders a coffee. The waitress that serves him is plump, pretty, with tired eyes that have seen too much in too small a time. It's a look he knows well. None the less, she serves him his watery coffee with a worn smile, and he returns in kind. The only little light of the café vanishes between the swinging doors and Lei braces himself as he takes a warning sip.

A twinkle of a bell.

A dignified figure in a tastefully tan suit. A fedora is elegantly placed over his eyes. Steel grey hair pulled back in a tight, immaculate ponytail.

Baek Doo San slides into the shabby booth, seating himself opposite Lei Wulong. With a nod, Baek politely removes his hat.

Lei Wulong is a living legend when it comes to each whisper of the underworld. He has then, of course, heard of the resistance.

The waitress totters back out. Baek it seems is a regular, for a bowl of steaming green tea sits on her tray.

"It's madness," He doesn't touch his coffee. Baek sips his tea slowly, drinking in not only it, but the steady iron of Lei's voice. "It's a futile effort, and you know it."

"Your key motive," Baek possesses that fatherly tone that gives off the illusion that everything, with the right effort and timing, will be alright. Lei can see how a horde of gullible kids could easily fall for it. "Is to bring down the Mishima Zaibatsu. To bring Jin Kazama to justice. To make him answer for his crimes against humanity."

He lowers his cup. His smile is slight as he continues.

"Surely, that is worth the price of your co-operation."

"Jin Kazama rules this world by covert and unethical means." Lei crosses his legs. The cheap leather of the booth groans as he leans back. "The only way to bring him down and make it matter is to do it by the book. Spreading more angst by firing up this rebel group is just misplaced time and effort."

Baek clinks his spoon on the edge of his cup.

"It seems to be effective enough that we, alone, have secured his attention."

"It'll be your downfall." Lei feels for his cuffs, attached to the hip of his jeans. "But I'll stop you before that happens."

A foot, lightning fast, is wedged to the joint of his knee. The table trembles with the impact. The waitress blinks through the window of the kitchen. Lei hisses through his teeth.

Baek finishes his tea, and upon laying down the cup, dabs at his mouth with the edge of the napkin.

"There are innocent civilians here, detective," He pushes the bill in Lei's direction. "Civilians that have seen enough carnage, enough conflict. Let us ease their minds by leaving on a pleasant note."

"There are at least three ways ..."

"But they involve disturbing the peace. And you don't do that, do you, detective?"

"I _will _see you again."

"Yes, you most possibly will," Baek places his hat, just so, on his head. "And hopefully it will be a reconsideration of my offer. Good evening, detective."

Baek figure; stately, self-important, retrieves his hat and heads towards the door. Lei barely has time to grit his teeth before his only valuable witness is lost in the mesh of the early evening drizzle.

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The streets that pave the way to his hotel are plagued with mist. The sidewalks are littered with the melting sludge of snow and as he braves the cold, fresh flakes flitter in thin wafts and catch in the glow of the streetlamps.

Frost settles on the crown of his hair. He shakes it off, teeth chattering, and finds to his chagrin that he has removed his hands from the warm sanctuary of his pockets.

The houses close in, the tips of their roofs seeming to curve inward and kiss the bowed heads of the streetlamps. Lei is aware of his feet moving quicker, each hasty breath releasing a stream of smoke from his lips.

That's when…

_Oh god no I'm going mad no no no_

He sees _her _half hidden in the mouth of a nearby alleyway, dressed in the jumpsuit despite the cold, her fixed gaze steady and unshakable. The moonlight glitters in the whites of her eyes.

He slips.

The world turns over and his back _cracks _on the pavement.

He rolls on his side, groaning through gritted teeth. The sky is bare and cold and starless, and any mist has seemingly evaporated into the smoky glaze of the streetlamps. The taste of rank, crushed coffee beans is a spoil in his mouth.

The alley is empty.

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He'd kicked up the heater. It's was an old thing, rusted near to the point of non-function, but Lei prided himself on his optimism.

The glass rattles in the panes. The wind has picked up since he arrived home, thickening out the night with a denser chill than before. The heater had finally crackled to life but its warmth it slight and unsatisfying, and Lei pours over his policing notes in a thick jumper and jeans.

He'd tried to turn the television on, but all that greeted him was static as white as the snow outside and so he'd been forced to abandon such an endeavor. The radio wasn't much better; it spat and sang and gurgled, satellites dipping out of reach, and the noise had seemed too loud in the small apartment. Lei had finally turned it off, the hair on his neck bristling.

He sips his coffee, and turns again to his notes. Unfortunately, it's a filing cabinet of dead ends and disappointments. He chuckles as he turns the nearest file over. The most dangerous man in the world lurked only a mile away, and yet there was not one single person in the whole city who'd dared to dish even a speck of dirt on the bastard.

"He has you all under his foot," Lei speaks out loud. His words are a lonely echo. "And yet not one of you has the guts to speak out? Give me a break, will ya?"

He sighs and slumps back into the chair.

"Not that I can blame them really." He taps his pen on the table. "Guess they value their necks, and who wouldn't?"

He turns his eyes towards the billboard on the wall. Old pictures, friends and family and past team mates. Michelle Chang gives a peace sign from the saddle of Phoenix's bike. Marshall cooking up his specialty noodles (according to him, police personnel paid extra) with his young son peeking over the table. The late King giving a wave from the pool.

On the left, there is another beach picture. The hat he'd bought her had been too big, slipping over her eyes, but she'd tried her best to keep it up with her finger and thumb. The white one piece had also been a sneaky present; she hadn't owned a bathing suit, and laughed off the crude idea of a bikini. Jun Kazama smiles beneath her oversized hat, as she'd smiled at him holding the camera, and suddenly Lei has unknowingly crossed over to the picture.

"Huh. What to do with you?"

As he touches the photo, something moist spreads on his fingertips and he blinks. Drawing his hand back, there is a smudge of purple on the tip of his index finger.

He looks up to the picture again. An inky smudge has bloomed on her chest, creeping down and dripping off the edge of the paper.

Lei strides back to his desk. His pens are intact. Not a single one has spared a drop of ink. But then he looks at the dying ink on his notepad, and grins.

"Seriously. Look what I'm doing to myself. I've got to hit the sack now."

The woman in the photo is silent.

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Whilst the night had been bitter, the heater seems to spring to life and lap the walls with a discomfiting humidity. Lei sweats in his boxers, driving the sheets away with his legs, throwing a hand over his eyes.

In his mind's eye, the woman in the photo lowers the hat further down over her eyes. He swears he sees a toxic burn of amber snatching beneath the brim, but he can't be sure, for the blue sea swells in a tide of musky violet and stains her skin.

Something slippery and cool trails up his leg. It slithers over the bump of his knee, coming up toward the curve of his inner thigh.

He scrambles back, throwing the sheets asunder. The light is a scorching torture on his eyes as he flicks on the bedside lamp.

The skin on his leg is bare, untouched.

The light is left on for the rest of the night.


End file.
